The Manly Man Journal of Joe Lucas.
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July 31st, Friday.
Horace Mantis Academy, Counselor's office, 11.15 am.
I'm currently having a staring contest with the counselor. She seems to be winning because my eyes are beginning to twitch like I'm being electrocuted.
Damn it, she won. I knew I shouldn't have agreed to a staring contest with her. My game is so not on.
You know what's the catch? Because there's always a catch kiddies. The catch is that I write in a journal so that I can expend my excess energy usefully. I'm quoting the counselor word for word here.
Apparently I have too much energy which I use to pull crazy stunts and the counselor feels it's because I have too much creativity and my creativity needs a outlet which will not cause people trouble. Something mild like a journal for me to pour all my excess ideas into.
Come again?
Yeah you heard right, the journal is to be used to curb my excess energy.
I can assure you, I have no excess energy of any sort. I'm filled with normal teenage energy like every other teenager in a kick-ass boy band who's on the run from rabid fan girls and has an alternate personality called DJ Danger who is the shizz.
Hmmm. Could it be?
Damn it, the loon has a point.
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Horace Mantis Academy, Cafeteria, 12.30 pm.
Dear Manly Man Journal,
I would like to expressly state that I'm writing here under severe duress from Nick Lucas and Kevin Lucas and Stella Malone. And because Nick is being a snotty little snoop and reading over my shoulder, I shall write mean things about him.
Nick Lucas is a dodo head. (You heard that right mister! I went there!)
And because Kevin Lucas laughed at me, he's a…he's a dodo…bird.
And just because Stella Malone insulted my insult she's a…okay, she's the sweetest, nicest, prettiest girl on the planet. (She hijacked my journal and threatened me with numb chucks!)
Can't a man even call a journal is own?
Fack it, Macy's coming. I've got to put this away so that she doesn't see me as a pathetic, wimpy, un-manly man.
Later.
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Lucas Residence, Bedroom, 4.30 pm.
MMJ, (yeah, I need an abbreviation because it's freaking annoying to write out your whole name. besides MMJ, is pretty cool, yes?)
I think talking to an inanimate book just about certifies why I need to go to the asylum for the crazies. Anyhow, that point aside, there's currently a bump the size of a watermelon, fine grapefruit, fine grape, on my head.
Guess, courtesy who?
Yep, Macy Misa.
But this time it wasn't because of some fan girl moment, she got over that a long time ago. Instead she tripped over something, landed in my lap and boinked me on the head with her hockey stick.
Boinked sounds awfully kinky, don't it? I think the hormones have travelled all the way up to my brain, from my pants. How fun. As evident, I'm so not being sarcastic.
I didn't know which was more embarrassing, the fact that she landed in my lap, just near, you know my... junk, or the fact that as she was getting up, I got a peek down her shirt. I'm ashamed of myself as I rightly should be but I couldn't help it.
I'm a teenage boy. There are crazy hormones running amuck in my body. And as we all know, teenage boys are unwilling slaves to their hormones.
Crazy hormones plus expanse of skin seen through shirt equals unbearable agony in the form of rapidly tightening pants.
You see my problem?
Any lesser mortal would have quailed but I manfully helped her up, didn't do anything inappropriate and I generally behaved like a courteous person. Except Macy didn't even want to look me in the face after that. I don't blame her. Who would want to talk to some pervert who took a peek down their shirt when they had fallen down?
I sometimes feel there's a universal law that makes sure whenever a boy is around his crush; he does something stupid and inappropriate which totally sets the crush against him. In this case me.
Macy probably thinks of me as Joe Lucas of JONAS, pervert.
The universe conspires against me.
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Lucas Residence, Balcony, 10.00 pm.
Guess who called?
Yeah, Macy did. She asked me if I was fine. She was pretty apologetic on the phone. But I told her it was nothing. I'm a strong guy and I can take a hockey stick to the head. She giggled at that part. It was so adorable, man; I wish she were here in person.
Cause it feels nice making her laugh and all. It makes me feel like less of an idiot. And I would so like her to see me as the person who makes her laugh, not the person who peeks down her shirt.
She then put the phone down saying she'd see me tomorrow and the best part of all, she wished me sweet dreams and sunbeams.
Dude, I just about melted.
(Did I just call a diary dude? I think I'm crazier than the counselor suspects. Oh well, all the better for me. This way she can't catch me and straitjacket me in some insane asylum.)
I wished her sweet dreams and sunbeams too.
Now I think I need to go to bed. The head's paining like a mother. Clearly I can't take a hockey stick to the head. But what Macy won't know, won't hurt her right?
Night, MMJ.
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Notes to self.
Hide journal from Frankie. Attach a lock to it. And make no copy of the key.
Ask Stella to loosen pants.
Memorize some jokes to tell Macy and sound witty and sophisticated.
Ask Mom, who the heck ate my Slim Jims? They will pay. There will be blood. Muhahahaha!
Eurgh!
The throat hurts!
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I couldn't resist. I just thought it would be a lot of fun. :)